The Weeping Hollow

The Weeping Hollow has long been empty- just fog, half buried stones, and the lingering echo of dreams never come to fruition. It lays on a winding path heading northwest from the Outlook just before the Sirencester Sea air salts the senses. No one went there unless they were trying to forget something- or rid their thoughts of someone.

Except once a month, like clockwork, someone left a carefully bound letter sealed with black wax in the little stone mailbox at the edge of its gate.

It wasn't magical. It was weathered from years of the elements, the painted embellishments long drained in color, and what little life it may have possessed was quickly leeched out of it by the moss that swallowed half the structure. It was bittersweet at best.

The letters were always addressed the same way,

"To Whomever Remains," Sometimes they were full of bundle of questions.

Sometimes they were filled with apologies and unanswered yearning.

Sometimes, they were entirely blank- the silent the impressions of dried droplets speaking louder than words ever could.

No one ever replied. After all, how or who would?

Until last week.

Ellen checked the mailbox as she always did when passing through on her way to resupply the Outlook from Langham's Wreck. Half out of habit, half out of aching hope that her letters might yet be answered. She had once fell deeply in love with someone who ventured to the Outlook under a regalia of honor and duty to protect his homeland from the growing corruption within the old forests of Arcvelt's southeast peninsula. It was there that he exchanged letters with her, until one made mention that his comrade had been showing signs of corruption.

One day, he wandered off towards the Weeping Hollow in pursuit of his friend and never returned. Just... Gone. As if the grief soaked into the land could just swallow people up like a stone to a deep well.

Ellen never expected a return letter.

It was folded four times. No seal. No return address. No name.

Inside, a thin, unfamiliar hand: "I read every word you wrote. I remember the warmth of your smile. You were not forgotten." Below the message, nestled within the pages, a pressed dixie diza blossom.

Fresh.

Ellen didn't cry. Not at first.

However, when the wind passed through the Hollow that evening, it seemed to find Ellen safe within her caravan a few miles east. The soft breeze seemed to carry enough to form the shape of her name as she stared into the fire.

And she whispered back.